Some months ago, I’d had difficulty finding ferry crossings to Spain that suited our needs. Even with my 3-month lead time, there were a distressing amount of sailings that seemed to be full. Adjusting our needs slightly, I eventually found a Portsmouth-Bilbao sailing on 26th April with capacity and a large, outside cabin.

One problem appeared to be Brittany Ferries swapping out one of their larger, more modern “cruise” ferries for an older tub-like ferry. Whereas most slow boats reputedly go to Chine, this slow boat was destined to ply its trade between Portsmouth and Bilbao. Normal crossing times on this route had been 24 hours; this trip would be 5 hours longer at 29 hours. Joy! Not only did it leave Portsmouth a couple of hours early at 08:45, it docked in Bilbao a couple of hours later at 14:15, which made a 1-shot trip to Jalón unpalatable. Francine found a hotel, in the form of a converted castle, about half way, for us to break the journey and recharge our batteries. The castillo was listed under a hamlet called Grisel, near to Tarazona.

We’d left home at 04:15 and boarded the ferry without drama. Excellent. I was a little concerned that our older transport might be a little less stable than more modern vessels but praise be to the weather gods, the Bay of Biscay was as smooth as a proverbial mill pond. In fact, I can’t ever remember a smoother trip on any vessel. So, after an even more tedious than usual 29-hour ferry trip, we disembarked in Bilbao. How anybody puts up with staring at this interminably on a cruise is utterly beyond me. [I know, they generally cruise at night, pausing to invade the next town by day.]

At risk of repeating myself, these Brittany Ferries jobs are not the so-called RORO [Roll On, Roll Off] ferries. Loading and unloading them is a very technical-looking game rather like one of those plastic tile puzzles with one empty space, where you must rearrange the tiles into the correct order by constantly shuffling them around. The shuffling here involves truck drivers reversing articulated lorries into spaces on board, and some car drivers having to reverse their caravans – a risky business given some car driver’s skill levels. The truck drivers are, of course, adept at this. So, after the tile-shuffling disembarkation game, we were not quite the penultimate vehicle to clear immigration, there were actually two cars left behind us. [Is there such a word as penpenultimate?]

The weather was gloomy, very grey and heavily overcast. Sally Satnav did her job and navigated us through the tangled maze of tarmac that Bilbao refers to as a road system. Soon we were on cruise control travelling a well trodden path heading for Zaragoza. Unlike previous trips, our task this time was to aim for Zaragoza but miss. We needed to miss to the right and, sure enough, after three hours, Sally instructed us to exit the autopista and head right towards Tarazona which, for the sake of discussion, we will call Beyond. Soon after exiting the autopista we past a fuel station but I decided to wait until Beyond to fill up.

Enter: technological aberration. Grisel, our target, appeared to be about 3 kms to the left of Beyond. A main road headed that way towards Zaragoza. In that general direction we could see a serious hill/mountain with its top covered by wind turbines. Grisel, we thought, was on what was, for us, the front side of this serious hill/mountain, beneath said wind turbines. Whereas we expected to hang a left, Sally insisted we continue through Beyond. sans deviation. Curious, we thought. It goes without saying that I did not see another fuel station.

Sally proceeded to have us wind our way around the far side of the serious hill/mountain to the Back of Beyond, no civilization in view, before bearing left onto a single track road with the distressing sight of grass growing down its centre where tyres fear to tread. Had the track not been signed to Grisel, I’d have panicked more than I did.

We climbed the back side of the serious hill/mountain, rounding several hairpin bends, before finishing up on the summit directly beneath the assembled rotating turbines of the wind farm. From here our track descended round more hairpin bends with little more in sight. I was on the point of considering a 15-point turn when, first of all another vehicle approached out of the mist and then something resembling civilization loomed into view. Ah, Grisel, I presume. We entered the back of it.

Now, Grisel is very small but sports a mass of very closely packed streets, all of which were curved so you had no chance of seeing where they might be heading. They were so tightly packed that Sally’s map was unclear and, by the time she’d said “in x metres turn right”, you’d passed two junctions with a third lying ahead and were left wondering precisely which “turn right” she’d actually meant. Just to improve matters, the glowering sky now began depositing very wet rain.

We found a church with some (just) off-road parking and stopped. Francine resorted to a Spanish phone call to the hotel’s number. No answer or, more accurately, a recorded message in incomprehensible Spanish. A second attempt resulted in the same recorded incomprehensible Spanish. Happiness was at a low ebb. Francine was considering punching Jalón in as a destination and forgetting our overnight stop completely.

I heard voices and a lady appeared with a small child in tow. I donned my waterproof and trotted off to try my meagre Spanish. Muttering something along the lines of “por favor, señora” followed by “castillo”, “hotel” and “coche” [car], fortunately she got the gist of my problem and pointed downhill telling me to go “izquierda” which fortunately, I understood meant left. “Baja” [low] and “parking” [guess that one] also featured somewhere in her sentence. I muttered something further that I hoped expressed my deep gratitude to her before setting off and finding the parking area, complete with a sign showing pedestrian access to the castillo.

Armed with bags and raincoats, we were now faced with a locked, metal covered, humongous double door; not quite a portcullis but just as impenetrable. A rope dangled through a hole in the door, beside which were instructions to pull to gain entrance. We pulled. No sound emanated. I pulled again, more forcefully. More silence at first but eventually I heard the reassuring sound of approaching footsteps. The door opened. Lurch would not have looked out of place. Instead, we were greeted by the smiling face of a pleasant Spanish man who mercifully spoke reasonable English. Relief began to settle.

Checking in, our host was mightily amused by our satnav’s chosen route wasting an additional 5 or so kilometres to take us round the Back of Beyond, over the backside of the serious hill/mountain, threading us between the wind turbines before descending the front side back towards Beyond. “But we are only 3kms from Tarazona the other way”, he said. “Yes, we thought that, too”, we muttered through gritted teeth.

The worst over, we were in desperate need of a drink. Our original plan had been to find somewhere to eat in Tarazona but in the dark and the rain, and not yet having travelled the correct road, we opted instead for the remains of our picnic supplies, originally used on board the ferry, in our hotel room. Besides, very soon I was not going to be sober enough to drive. Our room had a very pleasant terrace which would have been great, were it not for the rain.

If anyone ever meets a Garmin programmer, please strangle them warmly by the throat until they be lightly dead.

Thanks to our friends in the village, we’ve been put in touch with what I’d describe as a freelance bunch of walkers in the area; they call themselves the Costa Blanca Mountain Walkers. Thanks also to the fact that my extremely irritating thus far 14-month long attack of plantar fasciiitis appears to be at least subsiding – it hasn’t actually gone away – I actually feel like doing considerably more walking at last. On this trip, Francine and I have been out on a few walks ourselves – those that we’ve managed to locate – and enjoyed them. And here’s a point: one of the difficulties with walking in a strange area – we’ve suffered both in France and more recently in Spain from this – is finding and following a walk’s supposed route. So, hooking up with what are essentially willing, free guides seemed like an excellent idea. Along with two others of our friends in the valley, today we went along on an exploratory ramble to meet them.

The CBMW folks had organized a coordinated set of four walks, all departing from the nearby village of Lliber. For freelancers, they seem extremely well organized. Their walks are graded rather like ski runs, as green (easy), blue (moderate), red (moderately strenuous) and black (strenuous) routes. Moderate, for example, is described as being:

up to 12km, less than 400 metres ascent and less than 50% rough going.

Since this was our first outing with them, and since we were still feeling our way back into it, we opted for the easy route, described as:

A walk of up to 4½ hours on good surfaced tracks and less than 200metres ascent.

Well, you’ve got to start somewhere.

We began on an unfamiliar track and the first interesting item of the day was a long string of Pine Processionary Moth caterpillars marching, in their traditional follow-the-leader style, across a concreted section of path. The caterpillars hatch from large gossamer nests in pine trees – they can readily been seen hanging there at this time of year. The caterpillars’ curiosity is that it is only the first in line that can see, allegedly, so all the rest follow on nose to tail like blind mice. Well, blind caterpillars, anyway. Now, such a spectacle fascinates Mr. Naturelover (me). Unfortunately for them, though, the caterpillars have a ferocious defence mechanism in the form of a covering of tiny poisonous hairs which can, it is said, kill a dog – the hairs break off and catch in a dog’s throat, causing swelling and choking the beast. Or so I’ was told. Here is an article sounding a little different, concerning the tongue rather than throat, but still including potentially fatal results. Being the founder member and president of the Dog-Free World Society, this is fine by me – there are far too many dogs on the planet and most are ill controlled – but it does upset dog-owners, which seem to constitute the majority of the human race, turning them into Pine Processionary Moth haters. Our back marker must have been one such because, as Francine and I stared in fascination at this curiosity of the natural world, he grabbed a rock, placed it over the lead caterpillar and trod on it. It’s probably a very effective way of destroying the whole string of ‘em, the rest of the critters being blind and now having no sighted leader. Unless they have an answer, such as another caterpillar suddenly developing sight, it seems like an evolutionary weakness. I imagine the remaining caterpillars now sit in the sun and desiccate waiting for the dead leader to start off again, though I’ll have to do more research. I was perturbed but bit my tongue, which at least didn’t swell up and choke me. [Seethe]

Still grinding my teeth, our route now turned out to be somewhat familiar, passing one of my dragonfly pools behind Lliber. It continued up the valley towards and into Jalón before crossing the river’s course and returning on the opposite side back towards Lliber. Francine and I had walked the track beside the river course on a number of occasions, even with our favourite exception to the dog rule – OK, so I’m a hypocrite and should be a politician. However, we were led off piste to stare at another local curiosity, this one man-made. It’s an old deposito, a water storage device, a.k.a. reservoir. Our neighbour, who has been visiting Jalón for 12 years, had been introduced to this old artefact a week or so earlier on his Riu-Rau walk. Water was pumped up out of this storage into irrigation channels, which could still just about be seen. There seems to be confusion over the age of this storage tank, Roman and Moorish being muttered, but I think I’d favour Moorish given the shape of those arches – very Alhambra. Not that I know anything of ancient things, you understand.

Educated, we continued back, passing through Lliber’s cemetery, to the restaurant from which we had set out. Here, I must say, the restaurant did a splendid job of catering for the 100+ that had taken part in the four routes of the day. We were treated to two tapas, croquetas and albondigas, then in our case, Merluza [hake] in a saffron batter, though lamb, chicken and pork were also on offer, and finally a desert. Three courses with a half bottle of wine per head – 12€. Quite staggering. I still do not know how the Spanish do it. OK, this was not haute cuisine but it was good food.

Other than murdering caterpillars, the rest of the CBMW folks were a convivial bunch. We could have been more stretched so we will have to try one of their more challenging routes next time but I certainly hope there will be a next time.

I have long disliked the British climate.[Ed: No, really?] Though this may sound extreme, I think of it as one of the worst climates on the planet. Such a statement requires explanation.

It’s not that Britain has normally had dreadful extremes of weather but it does have a drab nothingness, sometimes for 12 months of the year. Winters are frequently cold, wet grey affairs, when the oppressively leaden skies weigh down on the psyche. The countryside becomes sodden and muddy, turning walks into slithers. Unlike a decent continental climate there is not usually any useful snow fall so skiing and other potentially exciting winter pastimes are not made available. British winters are simply irritating.

A proper summer rarely arrives in Britain. One did arrive in 1976, a year that everyone who was around then can remember, but that memorable exception simply proves the rule. Summer is often a warmer version of winter with lighter grey skies and no dry season, as such. There is not usually heavy rainfall in summer, but completely sunny, dry days are a rarity. Showers are the order of the day and not the preserve of April with its folklore April showers. British summers frequently disrupt outdoor events and planning a BBQ is nigh on impossible. My mother used to complain ‘cos I gave her no warning if I suddenly invited her round for a BBQ. I explained that the weather had given me no warning, either. At some point in a year, summer may put in a brief appearance but it is usually for less than a month and we never know which month might be graced by it. British summers are hardly worth the name.

In these regards, the British climate is surely one of the most frustrating on the planet. That’s what I mean about being a bad climate. [Note: Britain now does seem to be getting worse winter extremes with various sections of the countryside being much more regularly inundated, and American politicians still stubbornly refuse to accept the notion of climate change.]

It is, perhaps, not surprising, therefore, that I  have had a long term love affair with the more southern regions of France and its Mediterranean climate. Here, with greater extremes of weather – inundation has long been a possibility – a proper summer does usually turn up and for considerably longer than a few measly weeks. Southern France is typified by the smell of hot pine forests and gloriously colourful Mediterranean plants, such as Bougainvillea, marking the difference in the climate. This glorious plant, frequently in flower, just screams “Mediterranean”.

With our relatively recent forays into Spain, even longer, reliable summers exist. I love ‘em all. Here, our friends can wander out into their garden and pluck a fresh lemon from their lemon tree, take it inside and cut a slice for their gin and tonic; a slice of fresh citrus fruit just seconds away from growing. That screams “Mediterranean”, too.

As a lover of summer side pursuits, I’ve long fancied living in a place where the climate not only allows me to get outside in comfort but that demonstrates the fact by allowing the iconic Bougainvillea to grow. recently, I’ve added been fancying the concept of having my own lemon tree for my gin and tonics, too.

Whilst we may now have such a suitable property, given our extended absences, a real lemon tree, though a small potted one would suffice, or a real Bougainvillea that would doubtless require attention to keep it alive through the lengthy summers, is not a practical proposition. However, knowing my desire for such an icon, Francine very cleverly found me the perfect answer for my birthday. I am now the proud owner of a maintenance-free Bougainvillea.

Happy chappy – modern fake flowers really are quite amazing.

One of the most appealing features of Casa Libélule when we were considering buying it, was its position half way up the south facing slopes of a mountain – well, hill since it’ll be under 3000ft – complete with balconies on both levels giving splendid views of the valley below. The lower level balcony, outside bedrooms 2 & 3, is really only wide enough for airing clothes but the upper level balcony, outside the living area, is about 2m deep and good enough for a (gas) BBQ and lunch table. It’s pleasant just to sit and watch from here.

We noticed from early days that there was a serious design flaw, however. A window and a sliding patio door open onto the balcony. What there wasn’t was any way of opening either the window or the door from the outside. When going out onto the balcony, we became very practiced at pulling the door to, preserving any heat inside, with our hands wrapped around the door edge to ensure that it didn’t fully close. Then Francine spotted a handy-dandy rubber, multi-purpose door stop which could be positioned inside the door jamb, thus saving our fingers – just close the door against it. Our hand habit was superseded by a new rubber doorstop habit.

This morning there was some activity in the first house of our development. Francine went out onto the balcony to be nosey. Eventually I followed to have a look myself. CLICK! What? OH SHIT (or words to that effect)! Where’s that handy-dandy little rubber door stop? Ah, there it is, on the floor inside the now-shut-with-no-means-of-opening-it door. And here we both are, on the outside.

Without breaking something, we are both now locked on the balcony. Being on the side of a mountain, the very hard concrete and stone ground level of our development is about 16ft/5m below our feet. Both our entrance door keys, should we ever manage to get to it, are locked inside the house, along with that handy-dandy little rubber door wedge. We had at least lodged door keys with two friends in the valley, to act as key-holders. However, our Spanish mobile, the repository of all our Spanish contact numbers, is also locked inside the house, along with our keys and that handy-dandy little door wedge.

I do have my English mobile phone in my pocket, though. It has contact details of our English neighbour who is also out in Jalón on this occasion. Being a smart phone [Ed: unlike its owner], I also have a my email contacts. I send off emails to our key-holders, hoping they’ll be watching their accounts. Next I call our English neighbour’s Spanish mobile which IS on the smart phone – no answer. I call Mrs English-Neighbour’s UK mobile. Voicemail. We pace up and down our distressingly small world, not receiving any responses to my emails. Over the course of about 30 minutes, four further attempts to reach Mrs. English-Neighbour’s mobile also go through to voicemail. Bugger! Now my phone’s battery is running distressingly low. Furthermore, I my phone account has a £2.50 cap on roaming charges which can’t be topped up without a credit card which is – you guessed it – locked inside the house along with our Spanish mobile, our keys and that handy-dandy little door wedge. It’s a race to see which runs out first, my battery or my £2.50 call limit.

A familiar car approaches up the steep hill below us – one of our neighbours, a full time resident. As she walks away from her car in the parking area behind Casa, I call to her from the edge of our prison, explaining our lamentable situation. Suppressing a smirk, she heads off to key-holder #1 who lives just below us. No response from his bell, car not on driveway – out. A second neighbour, the president of our owners’ association, appears and, completely smirk free, proceeds to call a locksmith. What an organized chap he is; just the sort to be president of our owners’ association. Ah, good.

Having failed to reach key-holder #1, neighbour #1 now sets off to key-holder #2, who will shortly be leaving for the airport on a return trip to the UK. It’s all beginning to look like a Hollywood last minute rescue – or is it more like Brian Rix farce? I’m certainly feeling stuffed. 😀 [My apologies, that’s a bilingual joke.]

A van approaches; sadly a painter not the locksmith.

A second van approaches. relief, the locksmith is here.

Now, when we locked ourselves IN Casa having just bought it [see A Key Moment – can you spot a pattern forming?], we had our entrance door lock changed to a security lock. Whilst our entrance door wasn’t now actually locked, it was on the latch. It took Mr. Locksmith a mere 15 seconds to gain entry, sans key, thence to rescue us from our self-imposed balcony prison. Blushes were in order.

Neighbour #1 now returned armed with our key from key-holder #2, who she had managed to intercept just prior to leaving for the airport.

Mr. Locksmith was not unfamiliar with our situation, having been called upon to free several similarly imprisoned people, some of whom had apparently been déshabille. There, blushes would certainly have been in order. Mr Locksmith offered to return mañana to make modifications to our doors such that we would not repeat the exercise. We’ll stay off the balcony until then.

In hindsight, the hand-wrapped-around-the-door approach was probably safer but, let’s face it, it was an accident waiting to happen, given the design – if I can call it design.

One of the places we most like to visit within easy reach of Casa Libelule is Moraira. Moraira is on the coast with a more or less south facing sheltered bay. It provides the satisfaction of seeing the sea and has pleasant enough cafes and restaurants for relaxation, In season, there is even a lagoon with the possibility of seeing some dragonflies. The sun was out today, though the air was cool, so we decided to go there.

We parked just outside town and began wandering towards the winter-subdued action. In the cool breeze, there weren’t even many birds on the lagoon; they were doubtless sheltering. Time was approaching lunch but our normally chosen cafe/restaurant displayed an unhelpful looking array of stacked chairs. Closed!

Forced into being adventurous, we ventured continued up and beyond the harbour where all the big boys’ toys were moored.On the higher ground above the harbour, we paused to take in the money view, before breaking new ground and continuing further round the next bend. There before us was a particularly appealing looking, sheltered bay. Judging by some of the houses sprinkled along the opposite hill, this was where the boys with the big toys might live..

The path continued left and downwards before tracing the edge edge of a delightfully sunny, sheltered bay. The walkway was lined with tables and a good number of people relaxing in the sun, though not as crowded as I might have expected. Lunch bells were now ringing loudly; we just had to go down and try to join them. As luck would have it, there was a free table under a sun canopy placed more or less centrally outside the unpretentious cafe itself. This was about as much invitation as we needed, combined with the fact that our favourite chopitos [baby squid] were on the cafe’s menu.

This is Portet. It was reasonably busy – the cafe was clearly a goldmine – but I couldn’t quite understand why there weren’t more people here given what we’d describe as an idyllic location. Maybe the relative lack of parking in Portet itself saves it? I could have sat here all afternoon.

My previous post introduced the term Riu-Rau. A Riu-Rau is a raising drying veranda or building, typified by a series of arches. Well, I suppose that it’s a grape drying building, really, since they become raisins only once they are dried. 😉 Anyway, today we were off with a couple of friends to see one.

We weren’t just off to see a Riu-Rau. This particular Riu-Rau is in Jesus Pobre, a small town relatively close by, and is used each Sunday for a farmers market. Markets are good [well, perhaps regular British markets aren’t so great] but farmers markets are even better. I think this one was actually being billed as an artisan market, which sounds even better – the power of marketing! 😀 Our friends picked us up and we set off in one car.

We didn’t know quite where we were going but our driver knew the way to the town/village. We abandoned ship in the first field that was being used for parking and implemented our strategy for finding our way to the action at such events: following other people or, occasionally, backtrack people carrying bags. Sure enough, we soon found the Riu-Rau which gets pressed into use as a market hall, allegedly each Sunday. This building looked new but I imagine it had been given a wash and brush up. (The lump behind it is the Montgo, BTW.)

There were some stalls scattered around the outside of the Riu-Rau but from my point of view the most interesting stuff was inside under cover – this is where most of the food was. I was particularly taken by a charcuterie stall (OK, that’s French but I don’t know the Spanish equivalent term). Here were some splendid looking chorizo sausages and some particularly fine looking morcilla (black pudding/blood sausage). I couldn’t resist – I bought one. After all, a plateful of morcilla y habas [broad beans] would make a fine supper. There were some good looking alcachofas [globe artichokes] on a vegetable stall which we couldn’t resist, either.

Sitting after our purchases with a coffee, we bumped into a couple who we’d seen peering around our development the day before. We’d shown them around our little Spanish hacienda, amicable folks that we are. They’d actually wansted to be nearer teh action and had made an offer on a place in Jesus Pobre. (I hope we didn’t put them off.) They were another Scottish couple looking for an escape route from the Scottish climate. I’ve recently realized the disproportionate amount of Scots that we count amongst our circle of friends over here; discounting our immediate neighbours in England, who are not out here full time, we now know 12 people living in the valley full time, 7 of whom are Scots. Considering that there are about 10 times as many English as Scots (in our home island, I mean), that’s one helluva disproportionate amount of Scots. Our latest acquaintances would make it 9 out of 13. Scotland must be a great country to leave. 😀

Regrettably, Francine’s stomach seemed to object slightly to the richness of my farmers market morcilla so I don’t suppose I’ll be able to repeat that. Still, I have at least sampled it. (I thought it very good.)

On the Thursday after we arrived, our UK neighbours, who happen to be here in Spain at the same time, had booked into a locally organized walking tour of Jalón, principally to see the Riu Raus [raisin drying buildings, I believe – maybe more on that later]. What Francine and I were most interested in on their return, however, was their report of orchids in flower on part of the walk. We grabbed directions and set off.

There’s a lot of rough ground in Spain but there were supposedly two orchids on some rough ground behind one of our favoured bars, just after a stations of the cross track. Without precision, there was a fair bit of ground to search but, sure enough, just off the main track Francine spotted two orchid spikes. They were big ones, too, so she spotted them from about 20 metres away. After confirming here suspicion in a book, Francine decided these were Giant Orchids (Barlia robertiana), with quite broad leaves. These two were quite different colours, too, one being very pale. Francine had seen one, her first, she thought, on a walk up a hill behind Senija a few years ago but, despite searching there again, had failed to find the suspect again. With a flowering season noted as January – May, we had perhaps been looking a little too late. So, these were a welcome find.

Spurred on by this discovery, we were keen to see how another of our previously visited orchid patches was faring. We set off up the Bernia, straining my neck looking beyond Italian design obstructions as we bounced and joggled our way round multiple hairpin bends. Finally, to my neck’s relief, we arrived.

It’s a tad exposed up at the top of the Bernia road but we were soon finding individuals of two species, the rather unattractively named Dull Ophrys (Ophrys fusca), which I’d describe as anything but dull with its strikingly dark lip, and the Sawfly Ophrys (Ophrys tenthredinifera). Because we were early in the flowering season, they seemed to be in good, photogenic condition.

There was another notable find up on the Bernia: masses of the tiniest little daffodil-like flowers we’d ever seen. These appear to be Jonquils (Narcissus jonquila). The stems were, I’d say, 6-8cms tall and the flower heads little more than 1.5 cms across. Quite charming.

We did try a wander around Las Salinas in Calpe, too. There wasn’t much moving but we did find one more Giant Orchid near the boardwalk overlooking the Flamingos. Here’s a bit of a close-up of the flower spike, to show a bit more detail.

I don’t think we were expecting to find orchids in full flower, though we had seen evidence of leaves before. A pleasant surprise.

We’ve been here a few days, now. We arrived on Tuesday and, fo the first time in three attempts, we actually made it through the awful automated passport checking machines that Alicante airport has seen fit to install. Again, mercifully, we seemed to be the only recently arriving flight, otherwise the queues would have been a lot longer. As it is, we got through in about 15 minutes. [It felt like longer but probably wasn’t.]

After a very short wait at the Centauro desk, we got the keys to our rental car. On our last two visits we’ve been given a Skoda Fabia – a reasonable car but then, it’s German, in reality. 😉 This time. we’d been allocated a Lancia Ypsilon. Warning bells! I’ve previously made my feelings about Lancia known in Tabling a Modification. Depressingly, It seemed that I was about to drive one.

In another first, the car was actually in the correct parking bay. We did a quick tour of inspection and sat in. I found the controls I was likely to need – lights, wipers, indicators – and and stuck the key in the ignition. I turned it to fire the sucker up. [Apologies if this doesn’t work, I’ve never done a video in a blog before.] Check this out:

What was that? What on earth were those main dials doing? It’s almost mesmerising – you want to keep turning it off and back on again, just so you can keep watching those dials dance. Last time our Skoda Fabia had a blue warning light that didn’t constitute a warning, now we’ve got dancing dials. Such is Italian design.

On the trip up the autopista, the car was OK, mostly. Our neighbours, who eventually caught us in their own car, christened this thing the jelly mould. I see their point. For those who won’t have seen a Lancia for many years [fortunate people], here it is.

I’ve been driving this car for a couple of days, now, and it has become clear that, once taken off the autopista onto ordinary roads, particularly onto relatively mountainous Spanish ordinary roads, that it becomes a complete pain in the neck. I’m tempted to say a dangerous pain in the neck. There follow a couple of examples. The photos are taken from my eye position in the driving seat.

Let’s approach a right hand bend on a simulated relatively mountainous Spanish road. This is a genuine Spanish road but it’s on our development, which is on the side of a mountain, where I could stop in safety to enable a snap of what I’m talking about. The rear view mirror is very low and there is a solid piece of Italian artistry above it, just where sensible car designers would have put a windscreen, seamlessly blending in with the no less solid roof. As I think you can see, the driver’s view around the curve is almost completely obstructed. Car, cyclist, pedestrian? Who knows? [This wasn’t intended as a selfie, I hate selfies and I hate the very term. Just so we’re clear on that. Blame the rear-view mirror.]

Now let’s approach a left hand curve on my mountain route simulation. Here I am, once again stopped on our development. The left hand view is actually even worse. There is – I think you can just see the beginning of it through the windscreen – a road turning off to the left. Now it is the duty of the low, down-curved roofline and thick front pillar to combine and completely obscure the view. There’s about a hundred metres of straight road made utterly invisible. The 9th Panzer Division could be approaching down that road and you wouldn’t have a clue.

The net result, if the driver intends to avoid a fatal accident for very long, is an almost constant ducking, bobbing and weaving motion to see under and/or around these very effective obstructions.

One positive about the car is that it has very good road holding and cornering, as one might expect from a country where all cars and drivers are expected to emulate Ferraris and Lamborghinis. However, it is now the turn of the stiff suspension, the reason the road holding is effective, to kick in bouncing and shaking the driver’s already strained neck.  The neck rapidly becomes sore.

It’s all very tiring and, indeed, tiresome. I hate it!